


Half Awake in Slow Motion

by Brokenjaw (Vrael)



Series: Brokenjaw's Lucifer Prompts [2]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sleeping Together, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23923204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrael/pseuds/Brokenjaw
Summary: But sleep doesn't come easy for Chloe, it never has.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Brokenjaw's Lucifer Prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724503
Comments: 16
Kudos: 221





	Half Awake in Slow Motion

There's a thunderstorm outside, crashing and bashing its head against the long windows of the Lux. Rain rings and shushes against the glass, and lightning flares every so often like paparazzi flashbulbs. A distant thunder rumbles off the San Gabriel mountains, but its fury is already long past spent. Soon, it will slink away, like an unfriendly ghost. Soon, it will be the stuff of puddles and news reports.

Through it all, Lucifer sleeps soundly, dead to the world. He snores softly with lips slightly parted, leaving a bit of a wet spot on his pillow. Long limbs have splayed akimbo like a starfish, and once meticulously coiffed curls fall loose around his ears. Hair juts out at all angles, perfect, beautiful and messy. Even the Devil can’t avoid bedhead it seems.

But sleep doesn't come easy for Chloe, it never has. She tosses. She turns. And she stares at the city lights, far, far away. 

Regret is a tangled nest in the back of her throat, sticky and sweet like taffy, and too large to swallow. It's a constant companion, like a heartbeat or an exhale. Every little shame flitters across her eyelids as the world goes quiet. From her father, to her ex husband, to Trixie. She flays herself alive with all the cases she couldn't solve, all the families she's failed, and those whose blood will never quite wash out of her fingernails. There’s really no blocking it out. 

She wonders if Lucifer can sense it, the guilt she worries between her teeth. If he does, he says nothing. Does nothing. Chloe is content to carry her burden alone. It's nothing a handful of melatonin pills and a shot of Nyquil can’t fix. 

Chloe pulls off the covers, pressing her toes to the cold marble floor. 

“Detective,” Lucifer mumbles, his syllables clouded by sleep. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just-” The words oddly feel heavy. “I'm just grabbing my night bag. There’s a few things I need in there.”

Lucifer brushes his unruly hair back and raises an eyebrow, “Right.”

“I'm not leaving. Don’t worry.”

“Worry? Me? Preposterous.” But Chloe doesn’t miss how the stiff line of his shoulders melts into a curve. 

She pads her way to the bathroom. She doesn't need any additional light, as the penthouse is well mapped by the soles of her feet. It's a simple matter of fishing out her night bag, grabbing a glass of water and returning back to bed with her humble medicine. Only, she lingers. 

The mirror in Lucifer’s bathroom is huge, slick, and modern, much like the rest of the apartment and Chloe’s reflection looms large, even in the dark. She can see the hollow of her cheeks, the shadows carved beneath her eyes, and the deep furrow of her brow. Lightning casts them into stark relief, like phosphors and edges that cut to bleed. 

What would her guilt look like if it could take shape? What monstrous thing would stalk across the tile? Her form would certainly give Lucifer a run for his money. She’d have claws, and spines, and poison tipped teeth. Horns twisted and black, hooked talons instead of feet. Snakes in her hair that could turn full grown men into stone. 

“Chloe?”

“Im okay,” she calls. “Hold on.”

She quickly knocks back a few vitamins, kicks her bag into the corner for the Devil to fuss over in the morning, and shuts the bathroom door.

“Lucifer?”

The penthouse is suffused in a flickering, warm glow. It’s white, its gold, its orange, it's gray. It's a color she can’t even rightly name. A campfire without flame. A sun shaded by cloud and smoke and sky. It's the kind of gentle light that dapples through trees, and limns the ocean just before the fall of night. When she blinks it sits in her retinas like heartsblood. 

It’s Lucifer’s wings, open and shining when all of the other lights have long gone out, 

“Well, come on. We haven't got all night.” He lifts his left wing in invitation and the arch of it flexes in a singular, fluid movement. 

“Are you sure?” They haven't done this before. “I could get them dirty. Or crush them.”

“I’ll survive.” 

It's an odd thing, climbing into bed with an angel. There are a lot of limbs to negotiate, and feathers, lots of feathers. But soon, the world settles. Feathers tickle her bare skin, and a corded arm goes to wrap around her stomach. One huge wing creates a small canopy over them both. The brightness has dulled a bit, to embers and moonlight. 

There’s a warm palm against her scalp. Fingers lightly scratch and smooth her hair, brushing over the shell of her ear, massaging into the nape of her neck. Tangles are gently parted. Lucifer’s hand ghosts over her temples, down her jaw, to rest on rest on her shoulder. She can feel the rasp of his stubble against her back. His breath as it rumbles deep in his chest. It turns her liquid, boneless. She snuggles deeper into the sheets. Deeper into him.

“Has anyone ever told you your sleep schedule is appalling?” He says, lips pressed against her skin. “Even by my standards. If I wasn’t on Morpheus’ shit list, I’d ask him for a favor on your behalf.”

“Mmmm.” Chloe replies, noncommittal and admitting to nothing. 

“I guess I’ll have to do.” He pulls her in tighter, his wing bringing her close. “Sleep, Detective. And dream well.”

Her hand wraps around his. “Only if I dream of you.” 

“And you call me  _ cheesy.”  _ But Lucifer kisses her shoulder and accepts the compliment. 

Thunder still crashes in the distance, but Chloe can’t hear it anymore. It's muffled by white feathers, silken sheets, and sweet, sweet slumber. 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: I have this image of sunlight dappled on golden sheets, like the kind of trembling watery light of an early evening rainstorm when the sun’s on its way out and everything has become orange and red and flickering.


End file.
